Glowing
by Landwerda
Summary: A young Natasha Romanoff is honed into a tool, and then broken, and then rescued. A tale, in seven parts, of the Black Widow. Now with a bonus chapter!
1. breaking

1\. Breaking

Natasha's first memory would always be of glass.

She doesn't even know how old she is; she is sitting in a car, with her mother, on the way to a gala.

Or so she thinks, later.

Still- she's dressed in warm furs, and is dolled up prettily, and then something jerks, and her mother shrieks something into the night air, and the world explodes into red-blue-white-white- _white._

Crews scatter around her, taking no heed of the child who has survived miraculously, and she stumbles to her knees beside the wreckage of the car. Red soaks her vision; a head wound is bleeding profusely. But she still gathers, painstakingly carefully, the glittering cubes of glass from the side of the car.

(Her mother had told her, once, to hold onto the prettiness of life.)

They're tucked away in her undercoat's pocket, little pieces that come together to form a glamorous whole.

She doesn't know the man who takes her away, but he shakes her slightly and the glass tinkles down against the concrete of the road like a waterfall.

They gleam diamond-bright in the darkness.

* * *

 **Will be updated once a day for a full week. This one is actually compatible with another of my Avengers stories- _Wings of Angels._**

 **Reviews inspire me!**

 **-Dialux**


	2. rust

1\. Rust

She is the only one in the academy with red hair.

It's such a small thing to be vain about, and God knows that Natalia has enough to be proud of. She's smart and fast and witty, and charms the world without expending more effort than normal. Her looks are nothing to be ashamed of, either, and though she's still young she can still beguile people with a glance.

(She hones herself into a weapon, every day. Every weakness she could have is scrutinized and restructured into something more… usable.)

Nobody wants to be her friend, despite her perfection.

She doesn't let anything show, instead guzzling her teachers' praise and absorbing their lessons with a single-minded focus that startles as much as frightens.

She's not tall, not thin, not blond. Her skin is constantly on the verge of being tan; her eyes are a hint too hazel to be properly Russian.

 _Monster,_ the other children hiss.

She doesn't realize the irony until she's already had twenty deaths on her hands.

* * *

 **I used classical Scandinavian characteristics as a reference point. Hope you guys liked it; see you tomorrow!**

 **Reviews inspire me.**

 **-Dialux**


	3. genesis

3\. Genesis

Her first kill is a normal man on a normal street on a normal day.

The wind is brisk, cutting into her leather coat, and she's finely aware of her handlers a hundred yards away. She shows none of it, though, instead moving forward like she's the dancer they've set her up to be.

 _Flip your hair, Natalia._

She sidles up to him when he gets a _kissel_ , and orders the same kind. The drink tastes like ashes in her mouth.

 _Smile, Natalia._

Her eyes narrow, a balanced counterpoint to the wide smile she offers him. He wears a black trench coat that wraps around his shoulders- suddenly she's struck with doubt. Can she do it? Can she do what she has been trained to-

 _Isolate him, Natalia._

She presses a hand against his back, and silently directs him backward. There is a giant procession of cars flying through the narrow street, and they do not want to be run over.

By the time the cars leave, he is garroted and forcibly stuffed into a small window-sill; nobody will notice that anything is wrong until it is far too late.

Her hands shake the entire time- but her eyes remain level, and nobody sees her whitened palms, shoved as they are in her coat pockets. She takes a warm shower when she returns to the school.

She tosses the string of diamond-wire into a gutter on her way there, and doesn't think about breaking glass or the beginning of monsters.

* * *

 ** _Kissel_ is a sort of thick fruit juice; a bit too sweet for my taste, but I think it's more of an acquired taste. These are going to get progressively longer, don't worry...**

 **Reviews inspire me!**

 **-Dialux**


	4. vengeance

4\. Vengeance

She finds out, at sixteen, of her father's cowardice.

He'd killed her mother, and left her for dead. The files in her hands are crumpled and shredded, and she torches the entire block when she walks out. Her eyes are a hint too red when she walks into Headquarters.

(Dead, her conscious breathes tantalizingly. Kill him and take his heart and _make him bleed.)_

The smile she offers her CO is verging this side of fake. It's okay, though, he'll never know the difference.

That frightens her more than it should.

"And everything was destroyed?" He asks blandly.

Her eyes remain calm. Her voice is even. "Everything."

"Everything?"

She nods coolly.

She holds a knife to her father's throat, later that night. Ruby drops well over the pale arch of his throat; he leans back to avoid it. She smiles like a large, feral cat.

"You made me the monster," she purrs into his ear.

The next morning, she sees her CO staring at her. She waves a hand at him, and doesn't quite stare at the flecks of blood dusting the inside of her nails.

* * *

 **See you guys tomorrow!**

 **Reviews inspire me.**

 **-Dialux**


	5. pereryv

5. _Pereryv_

It's on a mission in Ho Chi Minh City- then called Saigon- that something in her _breaks._ It's after the mark is dead; she's walking back from his hotel room and it's a muggy night, humid but windy.

The man had put up a good fight, up to and including drugging her. Her tolerance was higher than expected, especially for her size, so the mission hadn't been a complete bust, but, now, the lights around her swim in a haze of gold-white-white- _white._

 _A woman, screaming soundlessly, limp on a leather seat._

 _A young boy, smiling at her, eyes the exact same shade as hers._

 _Glass strewn on a highway._

Natalia screams into her hand, her mind gaping open like something broken. There are holes there that she's never bothered to find, gaps in things she never thought important enough to search for. She is Natalia Alianovna Romanova; what else does it matter, her past? Her duty is to Russia.

Kristoff Hengels, was the man she killed, but his face is just another oval in the victim-strewn sky of her past. Nothing great; nothing memorable, just another man.

She loops her high heels over her arm, and pulls her hair out of its bun- it's hanging half-out, anyways. And she pauses, on the street right before her hotel.

Mikhail Rubanev and Irina Uspenskaya are waiting inside of the dingy hotel room for her return, likely with warm towels and alcohol. She thinks she should be surprised by the extent to which she _hates_ that idea; Natalia wants to run, now, as far away as possible from these people who have no compunctions about erasing… _her,_ because who is she, without her past?

And what is her past, that isn't memory?

So instead of turning left, she goes right, and says goodbye to that life she could have, once, led.

Irina finds her two hours later, and shoots her twice, once on the shoulder and the other on the thigh. Natalia doesn't quite scream; there isn't enough strength left in her to fight. When Irina steps forward, a moment later, she doesn't stab her handler.

"It is time to come _home,_ Natashka," she says, carding a hand through her bloody hair. "It is time to come home."

Natalia dies, a little, on that street in Thailand. She goes limp in Irina's arms and surrenders to the Red Room; her last free thought is a man's whisper echoing through her ears:

 _A coward dies a thousand deaths._

* * *

 ** _Pereryv_** **means broken.** **And, yes, I got my Russian translation from google. Probably not the best one to choose, but I was a little done by the time I got to that point in my writing (I put everything that should be translated in italics, and then go back to actually translate that when I'm finished). I can speak a number of languages and understand quite a few others (right now, I'm on nine) but Russian's just _different,_ you know? Not happening, those East Slavic nomenclature systems.**

 **I also think of Natalia as having a younger brother. That might become part of a one-shot. No promises, though... I was also finishing the last chapter when I realized there was another moment I wanted to explore, so this will actually be eight chapters, not seven, but it will be finished on the same day!**

 **Reviews inspire me!**

 **-Dialux**


	6. perestroika

1\. _Perestroika_

Rome is quiet, and humid.

The winding streets are soaked; it's been a rainy October and the dampness hangs in the air, no matter how close you are to the sea.

And Natalia is close to the sea- the club the Red Room has sent her to is right on the edge of the _Pier Maison_ , a beach notable for its roaring waves and silvered dunes. If she was any less professional, she would be dipping her feet into the trembling waters; Italy is warm, even in the midst of winter, like Russia never is.

But Natalia is professional- is the best, in fact- and knows better than to let personal indulgence get in the way of an op.

The dress she has chosen for the night is dark green, the color of pine needles on snow. It complements her striking hair and draws attention to her smooth skin- very similar to how she kills, in fact: smooth, quick, and utilitarian.

The man at the counter falls to her smile in less time than it takes for her to stretch the skin across her teeth. Everything is rote, by now, these missions; what should she do, she wants to ask Rubanev, if she starts to yawn in the middle of an op?

At least this time, the mark is good-looking. Broad shoulders, rugged features, and an ease to his movements that belie his true size.

…and the last time she faced a man who moved like that, he was a professional assassin.

 _Damn._ Her mission's been blown out of the water; she needs cover, and she needs it _now._ Rubanev isn't waiting for her back at HQ, because real-estate prices in Rome are a little too pricey for the Red Room to be comfortable with furnishing them.

 _The Black Widow,_ she thinks wryly, _caught because she couldn't pay her mortgage._

Her handler for this mission is green, too, all the way back in Sverdlovsk. Her hands, clasped around the bracelets that, when turned inside out double as a Widow's Bite, tighten minutely. She's in deep, _deep_ shit for this.

"Tell me," the mark turns around, fully facing her. His eyes are a slate-green, striking that exact shade between stormy and colorless; a vow, promising of more. And his _voice-_ Natalia could _drown_ in that, alone. "Do you enjoy parties like this, or are you just here for the décor?"

Natalia laughs like he's said something hilarious, even as she twists her bracelet surreptitiously. "My friend told me the wine would be good."

"And so far?"

"It's… cheap." She shrugs, lightly, and lets the sheath of her double butterfly swords shift closer to the slits in the side of her dress. "But my expectations were low, already."

The man leans forward, and were it anyone else she would've thought him drunk; from the slur in his voice to the provocative edge in his posture, he _is_ drunk, but his eyes are a little too pointed for her to be comfortable with believing him. "You wanna blow this joint?"

 _Like hell, you wannabe spy, are you getting me alone._

… _but, then again, I'll bet you're not good enough to take me._

"Sure. If you can promise it'll beat the _wine."_

He smiles, more smirk than grin. Decidedly _not_ the easiness of a drunk.

She wraps her arms around her middle, like she's cold, and lets her core loosen- hips swaying a touch more than normal, and steps faltering, slipping along the pavement and _just_ catching herself before she lands.

They stumble outside; Natalia lets him guide her farther and farther down the street, away from the party, until the roar of the ocean is just a distant hiss. The streets are darker, here, tucked away between towering stone edifices and larger statues of long-dead emperors. The very air stinks of history and bitter, impotent fury: the rage of a slave, obedient to his master's will.

There are faint hints of remembrance, facets and recognition that come together and disappear at random times. And then there are the treasonous thoughts that are no more than whispers at the edge of her conscious.

Natalia thinks she might just be going mad.

"Where're'w goin'?" She asks, letting the syllables slur together in a faint hint of a native Italian accent.

The hints, alone, might have been ignored, but together they paint a dangerous picture- one that she doesn't fully understand, and fears more than anything. She might not say it, but what she _really_ wants to ask is, _why does the Red Room want to kill me._

But that is just a bad idea in general.

He releases her waist almost immediately, as if he's been burned, and raises his hands in the universal gesture for _peace._

Or is it _unarmed?_ She can never quite remember.

"We both know you aren't just a pretty face," he says grimly, voice holding none of the headiness of alcohol.

"'M sorry?"

His hands tighten on nothing but air, and then the glove he's wearing on his left arm is ripped away, revealing… _metal._

Faint memories emerge, of a dark shadow and a silver gleam; she's a child, for a breath, with no training but her will and no strength but her mind. And she _remembers,_ for a long, dizzying, spiraling moment:

Asya and Olga, Nadya and Irina, her sisters in mind if not blood; Ivan, the delicate boy with her eyes; her mother's glittering gold ring.

And _zima soldat-_ the Winter Soldier, though she'd called him _Zimashka,_ the Winter, but _her_ Winter. She remembers him, too, on a warm night in Rome.

" _Zimashka?"_ She breathes, biting back the screams she can feel splitting her mind in half. " _Zima, eto ty?"_

Is that you, my Winter?

His eyes are as impersonal as a blade under the full moon; there's no recognition in the rough features of his face.

But Natalia _knows,_ for maybe the first time in her life; she _knows_ Zimashka and wants… she wants him to hold her, like he once did, protecting her against the world.

Except he'd protected her by breaking her, and that led to her _here,_ in Rome, on a mission set up just to make sure that she died on the way. She'll be hailed as the former Black Widow, a beautiful, impersonal standard for the next generation of motherless girls to strive for; a martyr in her black leather and blooded hands.

And, of course, she will be _dead._

 _"_ _Eto dlya vas vremya, chtoby spat,'"_ he says softly, moving towards her. _It is time for you to sleep._

She pauses, watches him come closer, an angel of death and- maybe, perhaps, in another time and another world… an angel of _mercy-_ and she wants _so very much_ to give in, but there are _holes_ in her mind and, yes, damn the world and the consequences, but this _does_ matter, and she wants to give in but _not if death is nothing._

"Sleep, Zimashka, is nothing more than a _lie._ And I am _done_ with your lies."

The bone-hilt in his hand freezes for a moment, but that's all she needs; Natalia vaults across the cobblestones and onto the reddish-stone lining the walls of the buildings, using that as a springboard to twist to the outside.

Butterfly swords are a wonderful commodity for close-quarter fights, especially when the handles are extendable. Suddenly, Natalia has the advantage of the two of them- a longer reach, and agility.

 _Zima Soldat_ hisses a colorful invective when she finally does strike him, but it isn't in his- what she assumed to be- native tongue; the distinctive, almost obnoxious All-American twang stuns both of them into motionlessness for an all-too-brief second.

She meets his gaze, and in those forbidding eyes she sees the same loss echoed in her own. Were she a different, kinder woman, she would have tried to follow those cracks and deepen them; to help _Zimashka_ through the darkness, and hope that the burden wouldn't be quite so heavy if it were borne on two shoulders.

But Natalia _isn't_ the good woman, never tried to be.

In another universe, she would have probably had that kindness, but that mercy was erased by men for whom peace meant _business lost._ Too many people with too many agendas; it led to too many people slipping through the cracks like Natalia and _Zimashka._ She wraps a hand around the railing of the street, and flips away.

 _Goodbye,_ Zimashka. Zima Soldat, _I will not show you mercy when I see you next._

* * *

 ** _Perestroika_** **is Russian for restructuring.** **I spent a full afternoon researching East Slavic naming customs, especially the three-name system of the Russians/Ukrainians. Given-Patronymic (father's name, changed a little)-Family Name. Very, very interesting, particularly once you get into the diminutives and nicknames. I couldn't get hard facts on _Zimashka_ (which means Winter, but also, maybe 'little Winter'.) That's what I got from that evening, and couldn't find another way to make Natalia _like_ Zima without being a little too blatant about it. **

**Also, b** **utterfly swords were a staple in Eastern sword-fighting, not Western, but they're also a little flashy, and I thought Natalia would've liked them. The methods of fighting with them aren't really common, so that could be a plus...** **Sverdlovsk is now known as Yekatarinburg.**

 **And, finally, Natalia isn't seventy-odd years old in this fic; she was born sometime in the late 1970s; early 1980s. The Red Room survived the fall of the Berlin Wall, so it stands to reason that she was trained then too. During this fic, she is roughly twenty years old.**

 **Again, all Russian mistakes are my fault.**

 **Reviews inspire me!**

 **-Dialux**


	7. smoke

7\. Smoke

Three months later, and Natalia is drowning.

There is only so much work she knows how to do, and assassinations pay well-enough for her to have a modest set of safe houses tucked away across the world. She doesn't really care anymore, who she's been hired to _take care of,_ just wants to fix some of those holes in her mind.

Tea, she's found, helps.

Which is why she's in this hole-in-the-wall café in Drogheda, Ireland. It's a cold day; made even colder by the chill of her obsidian-black memories.

But the rosemary tea and the porcelain cups hold the darkness at bay for a few hours, and she has a good book open on the table- _A Little Princess,_ by Frances Hodgson Burnett. The words are a little stilted, she thinks, but they're appropriate for a seven-year old girl, no matter her maturity. The world-wise bitterness in her tone, especially when she finds the four-pence and the warm bread, is dichotomous; hope, in the middle of despair.

She has a flight to catch in three hours to Johannesburg, but right now, she plays with the spiraling steam and flips, idly, through the pages.

 _I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics. Even if they dress in rags, even if they aren't pretty, or smart, or young. They're still princesses._

Natalia closes her eyes and breathes heavily through her nose. Were Burnett still alive today, she thinks she might just hunt down this woman, to ask her one thing, both simple and so very, _incredibly_ important:

 _Would Sara forgive Miss Minchin? Can she? Is it possible, for her to let go of the horrendous pain and degradation that she faced for_ years, _under a woman who was supposed to protect her?_

Natalia hasn't been able to let go of that. Maybe that's why there's a story about Sara, recorded for time immemorial; the small English girl with patience and a selfless attitude is material that will never grow old. The world-weary Russian assassin on the other hand, with the inability to move past the darkness of her own past, is nowhere near as sexy- or liked.

Rising to her feet, Natalia wraps her shoulders in a hand-dyed woolen shawl. The stripes are homely and she doesn't look anything like a killer- but then, she doesn't _need to._ Appearances don't matter so much when the substance remains the same.

"Thank you for the tea, Eilean," she calls to the woman behind the counter, a dark-haired undergrad with too little time and too much debt, who worked days at the counter and nights at the college. Natalia takes care to go by Nessa here, and to blend into the crowd. She's the smiling woman with a midlife crisis returned home to recover and move on with life.

At least her red hair blends in here, instead of stands out.

Eilean waves a hand back, cheerfully, and returns to the giant biology text she has propped open under the cashier.

Natalia walks back to her home, a cozy apartment in the middle of the city. Once inside, she sheds the woolen wrap and simple clothing- she dresses in ermine and silk; there might be a plant labelled _kingkiller,_ but Natalia is far more adept at slicing a man's throat without asking questions than any dubious herb.

The pearls lining her throat might just be a touch too ostentatious, but Natalia's decided _she doesn't care._

On the way out the door, she pauses, seeing _A Little Princess_ resting, silently, on the dining table. She debates taking it, but decides not to; her head needs to be in the game for an op.

And she might be wearing fur and pelts, but the night feels just a little colder without her wool shawl.

* * *

 **I'm so glad for your support! Some notes for this chapter:** **I _love_ Ireland. Visited it a couple years ago, and fell in love. It's relaxed and laidback, especially if you're not in the largest towns, so it's a good country to lay low and recover in. _A Little Princess_ was my first Burnett book, and my favorite, followed closely by _Secret Garden._ And _kingkiller_ is an herb in the _Books of Bayern_ series; it's sort of a drug that poisons the brain until it commits suicide. Apt, for a minister who wants to take control.**

 **See you guys tomorrow! Reviews inspire me...**

 **-Dialux**


	8. found

8\. Found

Three years on the run, and she's here, in a shit-hole in Colombia.

And there's no extraction, no way _out,_ not here and not now. One arm is pinned to the wall; the other is mangled in an explosion from three nights ago, with infection partially setting in. She shouldn't even be there; there's no rhyme nor reason for her presence, just pure bullheaded desire to kill. Sure, it had been stupid- Natalia had been hired to off a man in Ecuador, and she'd been forced to duck out at the last minute because of an unknown sniper ruining her own shots.

And on her way out she'd heard of another outbreak of civil war in neighboring Colombia.

It took her all of twenty minutes to make the decision to cross the border; the usual guards watching were too embroiled in their internal conflicts to pay attention to the subtle shadow moving the wrong way into their country. It had been _monumentally_ stupid of her, but what better place for her to work off her frustrations than a country dead-locked in a civil war and no government to monitor strange, sporadic deaths? At least the mysterious sniper wouldn't be able to track her very well in the confusion.

After all, she's still the Black Widow.

And then, only a day later- before she'd come across anyone deserving, she might add- Natalia had been caught by the current drug-lord-cum-mafia in Cali, and apparently he sold _high grade drugs,_ because she'd been given a first-hand taste. Three hours later, she shot him straight in the head and walked out; she soaked the enclosure's fences in the self-same drugs and blew it to high hell as she walked out. The flames and debris caught her on the back, but the stinging pain was a small enough price for the terror the man had had on his face when she revealed herself at last.

Seven hours' ride and a hangover from hell finally forced her to make a pit stop in a small village-town-pueblo _whatever._ The guns would have forced them to give her some clean water, even if the blood across her shirt hadn't convinced them; Natalia unsheathed a twelve-inch serrated monstrosity and snarled at the men in fluent Basque before realizing exactly what she'd said.

They were really, _really_ good drugs, in her defense.

A grenade a day later led to some shrapnel in her arm, and it was then that she knew she'd bitten off more than she could chew. She was the Black Widow and could handle hell, but civil war was its own _special type._ When men don't have any issues with blowing up their own fathers and brothers and family, how could one defenseless, _injured_ woman tip the balance?

But she was nothing if not pigheaded, and she swore to herself that she'd carve a special circle of hell all for Bartoleme de las Casas and his men.

So she headed to Bogota. Glocks and a twelve-pack of kitchen knives were her ammunition, arrayed against men with Uzis and AK-47s. By the time she traversed the three hundred-odd miles, she'd changed her car seven times and lost five of her knives and exchanged her guns four times over.

And Bogota itself is a shithole- the worst kind, to be exact- and, yes, she should have been more careful. But she hadn't been, and stayed outside long enough for the _stupid_ sniper to see her, and now she's pinned to a thrice-damned alley wall by her left hand, while her right is seven kinds of mangled.

The archer- the sniper had used arrows and not a silencer; Natalia hadn't stayed long enough to identify what had put a man between her and her target but it had been quiet, she'd known that much- is standing a respectable distance away with a bow pointed, unerringly, at her carotid artery.

"Why are you here?" The smile that curves his lips is more a pull of muscle on bone than any true emotion.

"Casas is one of the worst men I've ever seen." And, because she's more than a little truthful, most of all when it suits her, she adds, "And there's hundred grand for confirmation of death."

"Who-" the man looks irritated, then a little flabbergasted. "Did you say a _hundred grand?"_

"Yes," she replies flatly. "But not for _anyone,_ needs to be done with a knife."

"Someone hates him that much?"

She shrugs, and doesn't reveal the stabbing pain that goes through the shoulder pinned to the wall. "More."

He nods, and then frowns. "I was sent to kill you."

"Why?" It isn't _quite_ a surprise; enough people have tried to kill Natalia over the years. What's startling is that this man is _telling_ her, especially so plainly.

"You don't have a conscience."

"You're just like me," she says softly. "Do _you?"_

He stills. Something's running in his eyes that she can't quite understand, emotions that are strong but not overwhelming.

The arrow is released, and she closes her eyes numbly, waiting for death.

It comes in black, black emptiness.

When she wakes up, the room is cool stone and high-tech metal; an amalgam of old-fashioned dungeon and new-fangled prison. The chains around her wrists are light but strong, and there's absolutely no way she can escape. A surreptitious tug doesn't even bruise her, there isn't enough give in the chain for that.

Unfolding her legs is a slightly more tedious process; there's an ache in her shoulders that she hasn't expected, but her arms are still attached to her body. She hadn't expected that at all. Her experience in fixing a body's limited to stitches and setting broken bones, not healing infections or operations enough to fix a torn shoulder.

If she closes her eyes, there is a rumble under her feet- the constant, mechanic grumble of an engine.

So she's on something movable, which implies that she's _not_ in Colombia. Good. Had she stayed, there would have been very little that would have stopped her from gutting Casas like a _fish._ The fury she tucks away; it's a useful emotion.

The pain, that she revels in.

And then booted feet- armored at the heel, to produce that distinctive _clack_ of metal scraping on metal- march to the door of her cell, pausing briefly, probably when they see the change in her position.

She expected that.

What she doesn't expect is the cold metal barrel pressed against her temple, hard and unforgiving.

But before the day can escalate- she's already readying herself for _war,_ it doesn't matter if her hands are tied, she'll break them and use her legs if she has to- a female voice rings out, sharp and clear.

"Evans, Freeman, _stand down._ Next agents to get in the convicts' jail cells without permission will be _let go of_ without an explanation, do I make myself clear, gentlemen?"

Grudgingly, Natalia opens her eyes to see this woman who bears such power.

She's tall and slim; her eyes are an intelligent shade between silver and blue and her skin is tanned, slightly, like she's just come out of a tour in a war. The hard line of her jaw speaks of resolve- maybe even determination. But there isn't any compassion there, either.

"Move and the entire room fills with mustard gas," the woman tells Natalia coldly. The gleam there says that if she dies, it will be an acceptable sacrifice.

Natalia nods slowly.

Her arms are untied, and she watches the woman closely.

"My name is Maria Hill." It's abrupt and slightly awkward, as if she hasn't had to introduce herself for a long time.

Natalia leans back and gazes at her for a long moment, before letting a smile twitch at her lips. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova."

"You might want to change that," the woman says, her face turned away. She's rummaging through something in the opposite corner, and doesn't seem to have realized the extent to which her words affect her prisoner.

"Why?"

Hill finally turns around, and arches an imperial eyebrow. "Aleksandr Alliluyev Romanov betrayed the WSC a couple months ago. Appearing related to him, especially after the _mess_ with your entrance into SHIELD, wouldn't be terribly conducive to a proper relationship."

"The WSC control… _SHIELD?"_ Natalia asks lowly.

"Not exactly." There's a wry twist to her mouth that says it's a long story, one that's both humorous and frustrating. "But they want to. And your entrance might just be the tipping point for the detractors."

She smiles, wide and perfect; an actress' grin. "I'm an assassin, Maria. Tell me who you want dead or kill me."

The woman has the gall to look startled. "You're not here for that."

"Then why am I here?" She asks, pressing forward daringly.

"Because the agent we sent to kill you decided you could change," Maria murmurs, watching her closely. "And promptly disappeared. The Director opted to follow the agent's recommendations. So, I'm here to ask _you,_ Natalia Romanova, do you want to join SHIELD or walk away?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Maria tilts her head; it's a fair point. "The WSC hasn't been notified just yet. You choose to do so, and you'll walk free until we catch up to you next time. And then we won't be so kind."

"I'm not related to Aleksandr Romanov, you know," she says wryly. "Patronyms and surnames don't work that way."

"If only they'd depend on the facts, we'd have the world in our grasp." Maria rolls her eyes.

Natalia hesitates for a moment, then: "Call me Natasha Romanoff, if you really want to."

She nods briskly and moves away, tossing Natalia a set of formal clothes. "Get dressed. Director Fury has a meeting in ten minutes, and it takes seven to walk up there."

"I haven't agreed to join SHIELD," she calls across the cell.

"You told me to call you Romanoff," Maria says blankly, tapping something into a tablet attached to her waist.

Natalia- no, _Natasha-_ nods, stripping quickly. She might have, in another time, tried to make it a little seductive, but right then she thinks there are more important things.

And, of course, Maria Hill isn't even looking up at her.

"Let's go," she tells Maria a bare two minutes later.

She nods, sliding the tablet into its former pocket. Her eyes skitter over Natasha's new set of clothing, almost approvingly. And then she steps forward, and extends her arm.

Natasha remains stiff for a moment, before she takes the handshake.

"Welcome to SHIELD, Ms. Romanoff," Maria Hill says.

Natasha smiles thinly, cold and sharp. Then she follows her away from the cell, and into the outside world; out of the darkness, and into the light.

* * *

 **I was going to leave this finished a couple days ago, and then I got a revoew asking for Natalia meeting Clint, and I chose to sketch out this bonus chapter.**

 **Some notes for this chapter: first, Colombia used- emphasis on _used-_ to be ruled by a dictator. Not going to go there, but the West Wing has a particularly good take on the effects of war- especially civil war- and I'd recommend it to anyone who wants to understand the effects of such a schism in the national psyche, particularly from an outsider's perspective.**

 **Second, Bartoleme de las Casas was a brilliant, compassionate missionary in early-colonized South America, who fought for the rights of the native populations. His name was, basically, picked out of a hat of 'famous-Latino-names,' and doesn't mean anything to anybody.**

 **And third, as far as I could tell, the name of Natasha's father is Alyosha, the equivalent of Louis. Yes, I have a oneshot in the works for Natalia on trying to find her family.**

 **Reviews inspire me!**

 **-Dialux**


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